


Rivers of Blood Flow Freely From Beneath Her Fangs and Wet Her Fur

by CharlesMeansSegenToErik



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Badass Sansa, Beware, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragons, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Flowers, Friends to Lovers, Gruff Sandor, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lions, Mild Language, More sad than angry Sandor, Mystery, Older Man/Younger Woman, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Horror, Queen in the North, Sansa grows up, Supernatural Elements, Tags May Change, The North remembers, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Underage Sex, War Of The Five Kings, Wolves, light fluff, stags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-23 17:15:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7472433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlesMeansSegenToErik/pseuds/CharlesMeansSegenToErik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The War of the Five Kings began three years ago. Most of her family is dead, the other half lost. She's been caged in the Red Keep for years, waiting for rescue. Joffrey grows ever more cruel, and society ever more cold. But Sansa has a secret. Something that it seems the rest of Westeros has forgotten whilst beating down her and her family. The Starks ruled the North for a very long time, for a reason. They're Direwolves. She is of the North, and she will always remember. She's also a direwolf. She has teeth. It's about time she used them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rememberance

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a new story of mine! I am thoroughly engaged with the Game of Thrones tv series as well as the books. I am sorry if there are any mistakes in here! Let me know as we go on through the story and I will correct them. But for the most part i hope you enjoy this ENTIRELY non canon Sansa. :) the story is basically the same as Game of Thrones up until the end of Season One and then it diverges. Also, Sandor and Sansa are sort of friends to start with here! They have bonded and whatnot, some of which will be shown in flashbacks so dont worry you'll see some of how they got to be so familiar right now! Anyhoo please please please comment! I'd love to know if anyone is intrigued by this idea! :) xoxoxo

Sansa’s always wondered how the rest of the world keeps moving; whether she’s the only person that’s stuck in a thick pool of congealed blood. The only one who seems to be fighting not to drown when it all flooded into her life the moment King Robert stepped foot onto the soil of her home, Winterfell, all those years ago.

She used to think that there was no greater honor than to be noticed by the Iron Throne and its keepers. She thought the golden-haired Lannisters were enchanting, and the large, dark king was imposing but striking in the way that most fierce warriors are. When Prince Joffrey had first smiled at her after riding through the gates on his fine steed, she had been in awe. But then Arya did what she always did best: orneriness. She got into a spat with him and as a result the royal family became more distant to her own. Well, pardoning King Robert and his old friend, her father, Lord Stark. The king had come to ask for her father’s support in the role of the King’s Hand, a most prestigious position, and her father accepted.

On the day that they were to depart from Winterfell and make their journey south to the capital city of Westeros, King’s Landing, Sansa turned on her horse at the main gate and gazed over the turrets and towers, the glass gardens in the distance and all the people waving the party off, and she felt… cold. Living in the North since sliding from her mother’s womb gave her an edge on all the Southerners: she was used to it. Sansa no longer felt the cold any more than those from the South felt the heat. But on that day, for the first time in eleven years, Sansa Stark had felt the chill in her bones, and she knew, even then, what her father was always telling her was true.

Winter is coming. 

And come it did; with a vengeance, destroying everything in its path, including almost the entirety of her family. The Seven Kingdoms were thrust into a war, not unlike Robert’s  
Rebellion had in her father’s youth, and everyone seemed to think they had a claim to the Iron Throne-the ancestral seat of Westeros’ crown ruler for the last several centuries. Families turned on each other, life-long friendships were torn apart, and sometimes even entire armies turned on their leaders. It became a time of strife and discord, trust was a thing of the past, and mercy seemed never to have existed at all. 

The only shining light in Sansa’s life is that although she is trapped in a den of Lions- the Lannister House sigil- her sister, Arya, who had also accompanied their father to the capital, had escaped with an old comrade of her father’s, Yoren. She saw it happen shortly after watching Lord Stark’s body be cropped at the neck by order of the, oh so honorable King Joffrey. 

The King’s Justice, Ilyn Payne, had swung the blade and as it arced through the air, the metal caught the sun and for a moment-just a second really- Sansa had seen her own face reflected back at her, wide eyes and pale skin against a splash of braided copper. 

But then the moment was gone, and so was her father. 

Sansa went numb, and her eyes roved the wild crowd instead of looking to her feet where her father’s head had rolled onto the trail of her dress. That’s when she noticed Arya being led away by the tall Night’s Watch recruiter. She never saw her again after that.

It has been three years now since the war began. Sansa’s nameday is a few moons off and soon she will be five and ten, almost a woman, by society’s standards at least. She rather thinks she became a woman the day a raven came with news that her mother had her throat slit open and her body tossed into the river shortly followed by her eldest brother’s decapitated head. She’s heard awful things about what they did to his body, so she never thinks on it.

For three years she has cowered here in a fortress crawling with lions, and bided her time. She was too young, too naïve to be anything other than the perfect captive back then. But she has grown, she has suffered, and she will not let her back be broken under these lions. Sansa thinks it’s about time to remind these people that she is a Stark. Their sigil is a fierce direwolf, and now more than ever it’s time for everyone to get a rude awakening.  
She has teeth too. It’s about time she used them. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Lady Sansa! How are you this evening?”

The Queen Regent, Cersei Lannister, always one for courtesies. 

“I am well, thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa forces a cordial tone. 

Cersei’s smile is brittle, “I was sorry to hear that you have declined, once again, to go with Lady Margaery to the seamstress that I procured for her.”

Ah, King Joffrey’s new paramour. After the war broke out, and Sansa’s older brother Robb became the leader of the North’s army-and eventually was proclaimed its King- Sansa was branded a traitor by blood, and tossed aside for the prettier, more graceful , Lady of Highgarden. Sansa pities her. 

“Indeed. It was a most kind offer, Your Grace. But I do not have any need for new gowns, and I thought it reckless to spend the Crown’s gold so frivolously.”  
Cersei smirks looking her well-worn but still wearable dress over, before nodding and walking very closely past Sansa, forcing her to move over a step so as not to collide with her. 

“No need, indeed, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa swallows and keeps her head down as the rest of Lady Lannister’s entourage follows behind her. When they have gone, she resumes her leisurely pace towards the Godswood. As a child, Sansa was raised with a duality of faith. Her mother, Catelyn Tully, came from the Riverlands, and they practiced the Faith of the Seven. Seven faces of one entity: Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, Crone, and Stranger.

Sansa has always identified with this faith more so than her father’s, because when she was younger it seemed happier, more joyful and full of songs and tales. But as she has grown older, and become less sheltered to the ways of the world, Sansa finds herself more and more drawn to her father’s faith. The Old Gods of the Forest is a religion that has roots all the way back to the First Kings of Winter. And theirs is a solemn and contemplative worship; the Godswood is a forest centered on a Weirwood tree, which has a face carved into it. This is where Ned Stark always went to pray: at the base of the Weirwood with eyes bleeding red sap. As a child, Sansa was frightened of the Godswood, and the face carved into the tree had never seemed to bring comfort to her as it did to her father. 

As she spent more and more time here in King’s Landing, Sansa draws far more comfort than she ever thought she would from the Godswood. It makes her feel closer to home, to her family, wherever they are. Today is actually a rare trip for her. Sansa usually tries to make weekly trips, but Joffrey is far from the kind boy she once thought he was, and one of his favorite punishments for his pet traitor is a regular beating from his Kingsguard. The beatings have almost always interfered with her ability to walk about unimpeded because of the bruises and sores. There was a rather particularly brutal lashing a few nights ago, and Sansa can barely walk at a normal pace without feeling the sting. She didn’t want to skip the trip though, so here she is, hobbling along as ladylike as physically possible and attempting to remain inconspicuous. It would not do to draw unnecessary attention. 

Sansa exhales deeply, her shoulders slumping when she passes far enough through the thicket at the opening to the Godswood to not be seen by anyone who isn’t directly behind her. Walking further into the small woods, she comes upon a bench stationed directly in the center of the area. The Red Keep- the name of the castle at King’s Landing- is very young compared to her own ancestral home, and does not have a Weirwood tree in its Godswood. It’s not the same as Winterfell’s, but the atmosphere is calming regardless.  
Taking a seat, Sansa makes sure not to lean into the back of the chair; her cuts are far too fresh. For that reason she wore a dark colored dress in order to hide any potential bloodstains that leak out. Bowing her head and saying a quick prayer to the Old Gods, Sansa freezes when she hears a twig snapping. 

Here in the South, the Seven are the predominant gods and thus, Sansa has never seen anyone enter the Godswood before. So whoever is here, most likely followed her.  
“Is someone there?” Sansa lifts her head slowly, and turns to look behind her. 

The leaves on the trees are swaying in the gentle wind that is brewing, but there is no one in sight behind her. She turns her head at an even pace, scanning the trees on her way to seat herself back in her original position. 

“Are you frightened, Little Bird?” 

A short shriek escapes her mouth, unbidden, when the voice comes from the opposite side of her. She whips her head over to see a very large, armored man standing beside her in front of the bench. He’s not looking at her, but instead somewhere over her shoulder. 

“Sandor,” she smiles. 

He looks at her then, a twinkle in his dark, grey eyes. 

Sandor Clegane is a member of Joffrey’s Kingsguard. He is well known for his penchant for violence, ale, and loose women. He’s also the only person who has ever been kind to Sansa in her stay here, and been sincere about it. He’s a gruff and unapproachable man, but he’s also not what others paint him to be. A large part of their perception of him comes from his face. Sandor was scarred as a child by his brutish older brother, Gregor. He pressed his face into a brazier over a small argument and ever since Sandor’s borne the scars on almost half his face. 

Sansa wouldn’t lie if asked: they aren’t flattering, and she doesn’t forget they’re there. Rather, to her, they are a sign of his bravery, his strength to go on after enduring such a traumatic experience. Sansa can identify. Though, her scars are not as convenient for others to see, she still has them. And she feels a kinship between herself and Sandor. They’re survivors. 

“What are you doing out of your rooms, Little Bird?” His eyes are still warm, but his mouth twists into a grimace.  
He’s not pleased. 

“I wanted to visit the Godswood. I’m fine, Sandor. If I didn’t think I could handle it, I wouldn’t have come.”

He grumbles, but eventually his grimace disappears. Good, she prefers when he smiles. Sansa knows he doesn’t though. The scars covering the right half of his face create a rather cringe-worthy patchwork when stretched into a smile so he tends not to; but it makes his eyes light up and crinkle at the corners, and his teeth are whiter and straighter than she has ever seen. It makes her warm inside. 

“I’ve noticed that you have been declining all invitations. I would know, because if you went to any formal events, you know I am always the assigned guard to accompany you.”  
He phrased it as a statement, but she can hear the question in his tone. She deigns not to answer it though. 

He can’t know. Not just yet. 

“Yes, I haven’t been feeling very well, what with the punishments I have been receiving. As I’m sure you remember.” 

He was witness to most of them. Sansa doesn’t blame him for not stepping in, it would cost his life. But she can thank him for never being the one to raise his hand against her. She is even more thankful that Joffrey has never asked him to; because that is something that she knows he would rather die than do. 

Sandor cocks his head to the side and peers into her eyes intently. She tries with every ounce of training she has ever been given, not to let him see past her mask. Like before he doesn’t seem fooled, but he must see something that helps him decide to let it go for now. He gives her a curt nod, and then bows slightly- traitor or not, her station as Winterfell’s heiress earns her a certain modicum of respect (she has a feeling that’s not why Sandor bows to her though). 

“I’ve got to get back, Little Bird. I saw you walking, and wanted to see how you were.”

“I’m fine, Sandor. Thank You.” 

“You’re not fine, you’re hiding something. Just don’t get caught, Little Bird. Be careful,” he warns firmly. 

Sansa just nod silently, and he seems satisfied by that. 

“Make sure the whore cleans those cuts real good tonight; don’t want them to get infected,” he growls out, obviously uncomfortable with his earlier show of concern. 

Shae, her handmaiden used to be a pleasure servant. Sandor’s the one who first had suspicions when she talked back to him once, more bravely than anyone who draws baths for a living usually is. Well, that and he said she shows more skin than he’ll ever see in a brothel. Sansa doesn’t care what Shae did before, because now she’s a dear friend and irreplaceable. Sandor’s still sore that she tried to lie to him though; prideful man. 

“Stop calling her that, you know she’s not a pleasure servant anymore, Sandor,” Sansa rolls her eyes. 

“I didn’t call her a pleasure servant, Little Bird,” his lips quirk. 

He finds her propriety amusing. 

“Don’t be out too late. It’s not safe after dark for ladies like you,” he warns on his way past the bench to exit the woods. 

Sansa follows him with her eyes until he disappears from sight. 

“Yes, well. I’m not a lady.” 

Her lip curls, and she can feel the sharp points of her canines lengthening. Running her tongue over her fangs, Sansa feels a swell of anticipation building in her blood. Her eyes drift upwards to the rapidly darkening sky. 

It’s almost time.


	2. Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Loves, no Sandor in this one! But a lot of fierce Sansa! :) MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH DONT HATE ME! small amounts of blood and violence! Esp. towards the end so watch out if ur squeamish although it's only gonna get worse from here so...yea. ALSO CREEPY PETYR makes his one and only appearance in this chapter! COMMENT please and let me know what you think! xoxoxo

Joffrey Baratheon sits on the Iron Throne the way one sits with a stick up his arse. He looks uncomfortable in the massive chair, and it’s obvious to everyone around him that he doesn’t belong in it either. Sansa is standing to the back of the throne room, trying to avoid being seen. Her presence had been requested by the King’s mother, and so she had no choice but to attend today’s meeting, but that doesn’t mean she can’t stay unobtrusive. 

Cersei nodded her head to Sansa from her own chair slightly behind the throne when she walked in so she knows that her attendance has been noted. It’s been an hour since the King’s presence was announced to the people crammed into the room waiting for him, and all he’s done so far is talk over the peasants pleading for help, and laughed at the lords’ requests. 

Has he never heard the expression, “You’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar?” Everyone on the King’s Small Council seems to disapprove of the way he is comporting himself, if the way they constantly whisper in his ear is to be indicative.

“Well, now that the commoners are dealt with,” Joffrey’s thin lips pull into a grimace, “Where are we in the war efforts, my lords?” 

The crowd of high lords titters at the King’s attention, and Sansa can tell they are all nervous to have his direct attention. A tall, reedy gentleman steps forward to command attention.

“Your Grace, it seems that after the Young Wolf was killed, House Bolton took control of Winterfell from the Iron born and rules as self-proclaimed Warden of the North.” 

“He cannot do that! The Heiress to House Winterfell still lives. It is Lady Sansa’s birth right,” a fat, bald man protests. 

“Yes, Lord Varys, this is true. However, this is not news to me. I gave Winterfell to the Boltons myself, as a reward for their exceptional work at the Twins,” Joffrey sneers. 

Sansa clenches her hands into fists, furious. The betrayal her mother and brother suffered was an affront to the Gods not something to be applauded!

“What of the last remaining male Starks? Should they not inherit before their sister?” Master Pycelle- the royal maester- questions.

“Indeed, but my spies have informed me that Bran and Rickon Stark are both dead. The Iron born burned them when they initially took over Winterfell,” Lord Varys rebuts. 

Sansa gasps. How has she had no knowledge of this? Her heart thumps in her chest heavily, and the blood rushing in her ears masks all other sounds.   
‘Brave Bran, Little Rickon…No that cannot be. Theon would never hurt them. He grew up with them!’ Sansa wails inside. 

Theon Greyjoy was a prisoner to her father after the Iron born Rebellion many years ago. In order to ensure another would not occur, Lord Balon Greyjoy-ruler of the Iron Islands- gave his last living son to the North as a bargaining piece. Sansa had always been wary of the caustic older boy, but she had also felt sympathy for him because of the situation. If Lord Varys’ spies tell it true, then Theon will pay for this betrayal. 

The crowd has grown silent amidst the serious conversation, and Sansa looks up to see Cersei’s gaze focused on her intently. She swallows and tunes back into the argument the Small Council is waging. 

“There is no actual proof to these rumors, Lord Varys. The boys may yet live,” an older, pepper-haired man interjects. 

Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish is an old paramour of Catelyn Tully’s, and though he insists that she should, Sansa does not trust him, for many reasons, the most prominent of which is that she has heard from others, that the man is the reason her father is dead.

But regardless his words give her hope. If there are no bodies then it could have been a lie, spun by Theon to protect the boys. This sounds more like the boy she grew to know, and Sansa’s heartache eases ever so slightly. 

“It does not matter which of the Starks still lives! I have commanded Winterfell to Lord Bolton, end of discussion!” Joffrey’s temper makes its appearance.

“Enough banal conversation,” he turns to the first man who spoke from the crowd, “What news do you bring me aside from this?” 

The man shuffles anxiously, “Nothing, Your Grace. There has been no word from Essos on the progression of the so-called Targaryen Dragon Queen, and Stannis has made himself scarce, hiding in his castle upon Dragonstone, after suffering defeat from the Lannister armies.”

This brings a smile to Joffrey’s face once more, and the crowd seems to relax. 

“Splendid news, my lord. You may step back now,” he flicks his hand out lazily. 

The gentleman immediately does so, and Joffrey’s gaze sweeps the crowd. She knows what’s coming, so when his eyes find her, Sansa stiffens her spine, and awaits the order she knows is coming.

“Ah! My lady, step forward!” he crows, “What are your thoughts on the matters we have thus far discussed?” 

Sansa complies, and her throat is as dry as Dorne when she replies, “’tis good news, milord.”

His brow puckers, and Sansa knows before the day is done he will want something more.

“What say you to giving up Winterfell to the man responsible for murdering your mother and brother?” he’s probing now.

Sansa’s eyes flicker with anger, but she schools her face to show her indifference to Joffrey’s questions. Letting him know how angry she is will only satisfy him. 

“It is an honor, Your Grace. The Boltons are an old and powerful House.”

“Yes, indeed,” Joffrey nods, eyes sparkling with malice, “and his part in slaughtering your family could only have gone better if he had done what his ancestors often did as punishment for their prisoners in war: flaying.” 

Sansa’s clenches her eyes shut when stomach rolls at the image of her mother’s sweet-scented, soft skin being rolled back, displaying the mess of red muscle and bone underneath, or her brother’s screams as they pulled the scalp off his skull with a dull blade. 

“Lady Sansa?” Joffrey calls at the same moment the Throne Room doors burst open. 

In a flurry of action, the guards rush the entrance to stop whoever has foolishly chosen to break into a private session, and the crowd begins pushing each other to get out of the way. Fortunately for Sansa, this draws away all prying eyes, because she can no longer control her reaction to Joffrey’s spite.

Her eyes snap open, and she brings her gaze up to find Joffrey’s malevolent one still fixed on her, unconcerned with the commotion caused by the intruder. When he sees she is looking back, his smirk widens but then flickers before falling. The heat on the back of her neck and underneath her eyes tells Sansa what he sees. Her eyes are no doubt black pits, her pupils blown wide to cover the iris and the whites, and when she slowly wets her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue, she can feel her fangs scraping her skin as they descend. She smirks back at the smug prick on the throne, and he sputters for a moment, baffled.

But then, he shrieks like a banshee. Everyone freezes and turns to him, confused. 

“Demon!” he points his finger at Sansa.

When they all turn their gaze to her, Sansa feigns confusion, shrugging her shoulders at everyone around her. Her fangs have hidden once more and the flush is gone from her skin so she knows her eyes are their normal brilliant blue. The Small Council are vehemently shushing the King after determining that he must be seeing things, but Joffrey will have none of it. 

“She’s some kind of beast! Sh-she had pointy teeth and, and black eyes!” He is standing now, and still pointing his finger accusingly at her, “What are you, you freak!? Tell the court! Your king commands you!”

At this moment in his hysterics, Cersei steps in, grabs the offending hand tightly and drags it down to his side. 

“That is enough! Have you gone completely mad?” She’s attempting to whisper but the best she manages is a normal decibel in her embarrassment. 

The crowd is talking amongst themselves loudly and giving her looks, but they seem to decide better that Joffrey was mad instead of her being some monster that came and went in a split second. 

‘Well, who wouldn’t?’ Sansa ponders, amused. 

The boy-King is led away at the hand of his mother, who is still reprimanding him, and the Small Council dismisses the crowd, following behind the former two. The guards still have ahold of the young man who had burst in unannounced, and from what Sansa can see, it’s just the Lord Hand’s personal squire. The poor boy, should have known better than to just barge in to the King’s Throne Room without prior acquiescence, no matter whose word he brings. For some reason, the Lord Hand was not present at these proceedings, however he will hear of his grandson’s… frailty of mind soon enough. 

Sansa smiles to herself, humming lightly as she exits the great hall, and wanders her way into the nearby vast gardens. She has an affinity with nature these days, ever since her ‘change’ after she received her first maiden’s blood last year. 

There are some whispers from those around her, but all in all they do not seem to last very long, and eventually everyone has gone about their own matters. She stops next to a thorny rose bush and leans down to press her nose into one that is in full bloom. She doesn’t register the smell, too focused on her surroundings. The walk through the gardens is a pretense; she knows she’s being followed. Unlike last night, Sansa is well aware of whom this person is, and he is thoroughly unwanted. 

“Beautiful, aren’t they, Lady Sansa?” Petyr Baelish muses, coming to stand beside her.

“What do you want, Lord Baelish,” she’s in no mood to mask her disdain for him at the moment. 

He throws his shoulders back and loses the supposedly charming grin on his lips. He leans in close, his mustache tickling her ear unpleasantly. 

“I saw you, my lady. You aren’t being very careful, now are you?” 

Sansa takes stock of the gardens, making sure there aren’t any prying eyes or ears around. 

“Don’t worry, we’re alone.”

Sansa’s neck heats up, and she grins wickedly before spinning around swiftly. 

“Good,” She flashes her fangs with a wide grin, “killing someone is always easier without the annoying shrieking of bystanders.” 

Lord Baelish makes to step back from her in alarm, but Sansa’s hand flies out and grips his neck tightly. His hands come up and try to pry her tiny hand from his throat, but she’s a hell of a lot stronger than she looks, so she squeezes just enough to force a gasping gurgle from his open mouth. He keeps one hand on hers, trying to make her let go, and reaches his other one out to strangle her instead. She laughs and grabs it before twisting his wrist until it she hears an obscene ‘crunch.’ Lord Baelish tries to scream in pain, but the pressure Sansa is putting on his windpipe reduces it to a wheezy little whine. 

When the veins underneath his eyes begin to bulge, Sansa forces him onto his knees before her. 

“It’s not very smart to give away knowledge, like you had about me, to the person it’s pertaining to. Why did you do it? You had to know that it would be very foolish of you to approach me.”

Lord Baelish takes short, gasping breaths when she pulls back on the pressure so that she’s merely holding him now. She waits patiently for a minute as he gets his voice back. 

“I wanted to show you that you can trust me, Lady Sansa. I am on your side!”

Sansa has to laugh at that. 

“Trust you? Honestly, only a fool and a whore could ever trust you, Baelish. I don’t know what you want from me, but you have been pandering after me for three years, and not once has it ever seemed sincere. In fact, I am sure you know that I have heard the rumors that it was YOU who orchestrated this entire war, AND betrayed my father. And now you know my secret, maybe not the specifics, but enough to hinder my plans. So please enlighten me, Lord Baelish, as to why your miserable life is worth saving.” 

His eyes widen, and she can see that he’s realizing the magnitude of his mistake in revealing himself to her. 

“Wait! Wait, I swear I won’t tell anyone, Lady Sansa! I could have told the King that I saw your face too, but I didn’t did I? That has to count for something?! Those are nothing but vicious lies! I loved your mother I would never do anything to bring her harm! Please, my lady, let me help you!” 

“Hmm. That is a valid point. Why didn’t you say something?” Sansa demands after a moment of thought.

Lord Baelish pauses for a moment, and Sansa’s patience is wearing thin. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, you can’t tell me, can you?” Sansa tilts her head, and begins to crush his windpipe once more. 

He gargles out a muffled ‘wait!’ and she backs off momentarily, giving him one last chance. 

“I-I…” he stutters, “I wanted to gain your trust and I also knew what would happen to you if he could convince anyone what you were. You would have been killed, and I couldn’t have that. I owe it to your mother to protect you, and that’s what I’m gonn-”

The increased pressure on his throat cuts him off, “How dare you! You still deny everything I have said thus far? Everything word that slips from your mouth is a filthy lie, Littlefinger.” 

With that Sansa releases his throat abruptly before gripping one head on the back of his head and the other on his chin, and grasps both firmly before wrenching her hands to the side sharply. The resounding ‘crack’ lets her know that his neck is well and fully broken. Pleased, Sansa drops the lifeless body to the ground and focuses her hearing to be certain that there is no one in the vicinity. She can hear the whooshing of the small river further down in the gardens, and the squawking of some sort of bird in the tree a few feet away, but the closest human heartbeat that she can clearly hear is approximately seventy to eighty yards away, and she can tell it’s coming from on top of a heavier, thicker beat-a horse, so it’s likely passing by. 

In this situation, Sansa would normally consume the body to hide the evidence. But the thought of eating Petyr Baelish makes her want to throw up. He’s the last person she wants to have inside of her. So instead, she grips his ankle and hoists him up over her shoulder from behind so that his leg is in front of her and his head hanging over her back. Not the most comfortable position, but it will do.

She walks to the edge of the gardens, just far enough to be able to see the stables on one side and the keep on the other, but not to be seen herself. Sansa is still attempting to figure out what to do with the body when she sees it: the gate leading down to the crypt of the Dragons. It is where they keep the skulls of the pet dragons from the Targaryen reign. It also happens to be where the current leaders keep their own pets: lions. 

“Perfect,” Sansa cheers under her breath. 

The Gardens extend cover up to around fifteen feet away from the entrance to the crypt, but it’s still going to be difficult not to be seen. That would be quite a sight: a hundred pound young woman carrying a man at least half that over her shoulder effortlessly. 

Guess I’ll have to move quickly then won’t I? Sansa jokes to herself. 

She has travelled to the bushes nearest the crypt door and when she has a clear shot, Sansa lets the anticipation she feels, heat the nape of her neck once more, and she purses her lips in concentration as she changes. 

When she feels the blood thrumming in her chest, and feels her fangs biting into her bottom lip, she knows she’s ready. She adjusts Littlefinger’s body over her shoulder, and sprints to the crypt door with her preternatural speed, whirring past an unattended mare in the process, which whinnies and rears up at the unseen, but sensed danger. Sansa pays her no mind, and is through the unlocked door within a second. 

Once inside, she drops her decomposing luggage to the ground unceremoniously. She needs to find the guards, because if the door is unlocked that means there’s someone working with the lions. She walks down the short hallway and peers around the corner into the den filled with cages of prowling lions. The floor plan is quite open and spacious, with nowhere to hide, so Sansa sees right away that it’s empty. The guard must have simply forgotten to lock up. 

“Lucky me,” Sansa hums, skipping back over to the body blocking the door. 

This time she merely drags him by the collar of his doublet down the hall and around the corner. The lions take notice immediately and begin growling and stalking their cages agitatedly. There are five females and three males all in separate enclosures. 

Sansa looks from one cage to the next on repeat, “Eenie, meanie, minie, moe…” she sings. 

Her eyes land on the youngest male at the far end of the den. He looks thinner than the rest, and very hungry. His piercing gold eyes examine her as she walks up and when she sticks Petyr’s head through the bars of the cage, the young lion pounces on it with paws and teeth. 

“Perfect.”

Sansa lifts the body and turns it so that it will squeeze through the bars- it does which is concerning since the lion is not much bigger than Baelish is. Though Sansa imagines it’s not simply kept here because of the bars, but rather because it knows it gets a steady supply of meals. 

When he sees what she’s doing the lion helps her by dragging the body all the way into the cage, wrapping itself around its new snack. In the few short minutes that she has been standing here, the face of Littlefinger has already been peeled off and slithered down the feline’s throat, his eyes shortly to follow if the way the young lion is digging into the eye sockets with his claws is any hint. 

Sansa turns and walks away, confident, that when she wakes on the morrow, the day will be just as any other, and none will have news that their Master of Coin is being digested as they speak. Watching the lion feed has sparked her own appetite though. So when she slinks out from the crypt, Sansa heads towards the stables next door. Surely there’s a stable boy or two to be found. 

“Can I help you, Miss?” comes the voice of a teenage boy with dark hair and a shy smile. 

He is carrying a pitchfork, resting lightly in his hand, so he was likely just pitching hay for the horses. Sansa turns to face him where he came upon her from an empty stall. She steps forward, forcing him to step back into it. She brings a hand up to rest on the hand he holds the pitchfork with, and gently loosens his grip until he drops the weapon. Then she slides her hand up the length of his arm, massaging his bicep when she reaches it. She flutters her eyelashes, and he blushes brightly all the way down his neck and under the collar of his loose shirt. 

“Why yes, darling. Yes, you can,” she smiles. 

He lets her put her lips on his neck and moans when she uses her tongue to flick out a taste. But by the time he realizes her intentions aren’t what he thought, her teeth are in his throat, her body pressing his against the wall, and his blood is flowing ever so sweetly into her eager mouth.


	3. Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the shortest chapter yet, by about four hundred words or so, but I hope you still like it!!! I promise the next chapter will be longer and definitely more eventful! Got some stuff coming up! It'll be up tomoro. :) Anyhoo Sandor's back in this one! xoxox

Being made out as a fool in front of an audience would bruise even the least prideful man’s ego, so when a member of the Kingsgaurd knocks on her door early the morning after the debacle in court, Sansa is unsurprised. 

“My lady, it is Ser Clegane,” Shae pointedly emphasizes the ‘ser,’ customarily put in front of a knight’s name. 

Sandor glares at her handmaiden, but says nothing. Time used to be that he used to growl at her for calling him that, but since he’s given away that he despises the courtesy, Shae has been determined to use it as often as possible. Sansa knows they dislike each other, but has not yet given up on forcing a friendship between the two. 

“Shae,” she admonishes her friend with a look. 

Shae rolls her eyes, but bows minutely before retreating to Sansa’s solar. Sansa turns to Sandor with a grin, and raises one eyebrow teasingly.

“I think she likes you.”

Sandor snorts at the same time Shae shouts from behind her ‘When pigs fly, milady!’ Sansa is beyond amused. 

“Yeah, what she said,” Sandor retorts. 

Sansa huffs but knows for now the subject is done with. She waves him into her room, but he shakes his head.

“Best not, Little Bird. The King is most anxious to see you,” he replies. 

“Ah, yes. I assume it has to do with court yesterday. He seems to think I’m some sort of monster. He had a vision of some sort, I’m not sure,” she shrugs her shoulders offhandedly. 

Sandor frowns, “Yeah, if I’d have known you were going to be foolish; I would have declined the day off to keep an eye on you.” 

She narrows her eyes, “Who said I did anything?” 

He just looks at her. His eyes are beautiful enough to get lost in, but she can’t let herself get distracted right now so she looks away first. 

“Come on, Little Bird,” he sighs, “Can’t wait much longer now, don’t want to make him mad.” 

“I’m shaking,” she replies wryly. 

Nevertheless, he’s right. The poorer the mood the harder he will have her beaten. At least, that is how it happened in the past. Not today. Sansa intends to show Joffrey that she will not kneel before him any longer. It’s about time things started going her way. 

“Okay, Shae!” she calls, “I’m off to see our beloved King.” 

Shae emerges from the solar with a few blankets in need of mending, and a pinched expression. 

“Of course, Lady Sansa. Shall I prepare a bath for your return?” 

Sansa always desired a bath to soothe the aches and clean the cuts she got after ‘meetings’ with Joffrey, but it won’t be needed today. 

“No, that’s alright, Shae. I won’t need one this time.”

Shae looks doubtful, but nods at her mistress before heading over to a chair to begin her work. Sansa turns around and gestures for Sandor to lead the way. He doesn’t, but steps aside for her to walk ahead of him. 

“For one whom so hates courtesies, you sure extend quite a few of them, Sandor,” she grins impishly up at him. 

“Only for you, Little Bird.”

Ironically, Sansa’s heart thrums like the wings of a hummingbird after he says that. Sandor can be downright ugly, but she’s always seen his charms. She feels honored that he has chosen to bestow them upon her of all people. When he comes up to her side as they walk, she reaches out and brushes his hand with hers. When he looks down at her from the corner of his eyes, she keeps her head straight forward and pretends it was an accident. He brushes her hand back. 

When they come to a stop at the King’s private rooms, Sansa is intrigued. Normally the King prefers to meet in the Throne Room with as many witnesses as possible to her humiliation. This is unprecedented. Perhaps, she frightened him more than she originally thought? The guards in front of his door step aside for Sandor as he pulls the doors open and announces her presence. 

“The Lady Sansa, Your Grace.”

“Well don’t just stand there! Let her in!” comes the shrill voice of the King. 

Sandor gives her what she assumes is meant to be a comforting look, but she can tell he is worried himself. She smiles brightly at him, before gliding into the large foyer. The doors close behind her and then it is just Joffrey and his squire waiting in the room. Aware of the second set of ears, Sansa decides to play it safe. For now. 

“You summoned me, Your Grace?” 

Joffrey does not look fooled by her play at ignorance. He waves his hand at the squire and the boy hurries out of the room. 

“We may speak freely now, Lady Sansa,” he attempts to give her a sneer, but its shaky.

Sansa can tell he has not fared well since their last meeting. He looks pale and sweaty with bags under his eyes indicating his lack of sleep the night before. She wonders if he kept up his raving about her after he left the Throne Room, or if he played it smart and went silent. He’s not known for his intelligence though so she assumes the former. 

“You do not look well, Your Grace,” she stresses the honorary title disdainfully. 

The sentiment is not lost on the boy-King. He scowls at her venomously, but makes no move to admonish her. Probably fearing her, until he figures out the threat level she proposes. 

“I saw you. Yesterday, your face-it changed,” his tone is accusing. 

She contemplates denying for a moment, but then, “Yes it did.” 

His mouth opens and then closes; he looks befuddled that she didn’t deny it. He shifts in his chair, but then decides better of sitting and stands.

'As if that would make him appear any more commanding,' Sansa scoffs internally.

At nearly five and ten she is already an inch or two taller than him. He must find it emasculating.

“That’s impossible.”

“I think you will find a great many things possible in this world, Your Grace, many of which would astound you.”

“What are you?” 

Sansa purses her lips and gives him a patronizing stare. He seems to understand she will not deny what he saw, but she’s not going to make it easy for him. She can see his fists clenching and unclenching nervously by his sides before he crosses them over his chest. He gives her an imperious look down the bottom of his nose- quite a feat considering their height difference- and demands an answer.

“You will tell me, or I shall have the guards beat you until you do.”

“Your Grace, if I may,” she stalks slowly towards him, “as it stands now, you are the only one who saw anything. And regardless of any beatings you may wish to give me, no one will ever believe you. They’ll think it was coerced.” 

Joffrey opens his mouth but she holds up a hand, and he looks incredulous that she would interrupt him. 

She smiles sweetly, “but don’t worry. I won’t let them believe you mad, as they did at court yesterday. I intend to reveal my nature in good time.” 

Joffrey looks mildly relieved but then after a moment wariness crosses his face. 

“Don’t think that because of whatever you are that anything changes around here.”

Sansa laughs loudly at that. Joffrey looks affronted. When she has recovered, Sansa turns her smile feral, and wills her fangs to descend. The usual flush of heat and the look on Joffrey’s face tells her she has succeeded. She steps forward and leans in so they’re only an inch or so apart. Joffrey freezes under the stare of her pitch black eyes. She can hear his heart thumping wildly in his chest; his natural aroma smells sweeter to her senses, due to all the adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream. 

“Sweet, stupid little Joffrey,” he doesn’t notice the insult, so frightened he is.

She lifts her hand to his face, running her fingers over his cheekbone and down to his neck. She rests the flat of her hand against the skin above his jugular vein and can feel the pulsing of the viscous liquid beneath it. She licks her lips and tastes the stagnant odor of fear in the air. It is very arousing, and she can feel her own skin tingling with the anticipation of an imminent kill. 

“Oh, the things I’m going to enjoy doing to you.” 

He swallows loudly, and she can hear the walls of his throat sticking together indicating his dry mouth. Sansa’s hand leaves the side of his neck, and drops down to her side; she shifts her eyes back to blue and retracts her fangs.

“But I’m not going to. Yet. I still have need of you.” 

“I-I can call for m-my guards, right this second, and they’ll kill you,” he squeaks out weakly despite the monster being gone from her face. 

She cocks her head and turns her eyes to the ceiling in mock contemplation. She ‘hmm’s and taps her chin before looking back down at him and winking. 

“They could try. How do you feel about a little game? You call for your friends, and I’ll see if I can’t rip your throat out with my teeth first, hmm?”

He snaps his head from side to side like a child whose parents just accused them of doing something bad. 

‘What a pity. All that macho bravado for the masses, but when faced with a real threat, he’s nothing but an overly conceited little boy,’ Sansa thinks in disgust.

“That’s what I thought,” she smiles beatifically and then turns to head back to his doors, “we are finished here, correct?” 

When she turns back to face him for an answer he coughs out a ‘yes.’ 

“Good. Oh, and I know I don’t have to tell you to keep your mouth shut, now do I?” 

He shakes his head, and she smiles once more before exiting. Sandor is still waiting for her on the other side, and looks confused- happy- but confused. He is well aware of how these meetings usually end and is obviously wondering why she’s one-smiling, and two-not limping. Sansa shakes her head infinitesimally to show that she can’t say anything yet, looking at the other two guards stationed in front of the King’s doors. He nods and gestures for her to lead the way back to her room. They walk in silence until they reach her rooms, and then he stops her with his hand on her arm.

“What’s going on, Little Bird?” 

Sansa just looks up at him silently. He looks back for a minute but then shifts his feet, uncomfortable with her attention on his face for so long. Smiling sadly at this, Sansa lifts a hand to his face, the scarred side, and palms it gently. He turns away slightly, unused to a kind touch. She uses her other hand to turn it back so that she is holding his head in her hands and staring into his grey eyes. 

“I can’t tell you, Sandor.”

His brow puckers, and he brings one of his large gloved hands up to rest on her smooth, bare forearm. The strength in his arm is enormous, but the touch is as lighter as a feather. The expression on his face can only be described as stone. She can tell he is offended. 

“Sandor, I’m sorry. Just, not yet. Okay? I need you to keep looking at me the way you always have...like I’m this delicate ‘Little Bird,’ because I’m not-I’m really, really not, and I’d like to keep pretending for a little while. Do you understand?” She pleads, caressing his face tenderly. 

“Only for you, Little Bird,” he rasps. 

Sansa’s eyes sting with tears as she digests what exactly he is telling her. He trusts her, when he has never trusted anyone in his life before. She smiles brightly through her tears, and he smiles tentatively back. Giggling shyly she takes her hands off of his cheeks, and nods before turning to go into her rooms. 

“Hey,” he calls just before she shuts the door.

She turns, eyebrows raised. 

“You’ll always be a Little Bird to me.”

She watches him walk away until he’s out of sight, the blush that bloomed on her cheeks lasted for hours, but her trust in him would last the rest of her life.


	4. Bonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OKAY LISTEN UP FOLKS: there is a lot of info in this chap about Sansa it is not fully explaining what she is okay so dont freak out when you see my wierd explanation and be all I though she was a _______ or whatever IM NOT DONE this is jus short sort of preliminary response. When she explains it out loud instead of just thinking to herself, there will be more thorough detail. ALSO no sandor again sorry babes. I know i promised Gore in this chap to a couple reviewers but it took on a life of its own and is really just one more step for Sansa in figuring out things okay? So be patient loves. There will deff be more bloodiness and death next chap (im certain this time because I've already started writing some of it ;D) ANYHOO momma's in the hospital sick, so I am probably not going to post again until the day after tomoro. NEVERTHELESS dont despair (ive been known to outdo myself) :) xoxoxo enjoy! And please comment!

Playing the Game of Thrones is not as easy as it looks, Sansa has found out; especially when you choose an irrational, boy-King as your only chess piece. It’s been a fortnight since she revealed herself to Joffrey, and as of yet, all he has managed to do is muck up the works. She has given him directives to put in place as the King, and he has been overruled every time by his overbearing mother, the meddling Small Council, and worst of all: the self-important Tywin Lannister, the Lord Hand. She is beginning to think perhaps she needs another pawn to work with the one she has. Someone to whisper her orders into the ears of those truly in power behind the Throne, but that can also do it with the tiniest bit of finesse, and doesn’t throw temper tantrums to get his way. 

Scaring Joffrey into becoming her bitch is actually not as satisfying as Sansa originally thought. And thus, she must choose another to orchestrate her plans behind the scenes. She is lounging in her solar with a book resting in her lap, contemplating her options when she receives a most unexpected visitor.

“Lord Varys,” Sansa greets after Shae has allowed him entrance, “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

The heavyset eunuch bows to her as she rises from her seat to give him her hand in greeting. He places a chaste kiss on the back of it and then gestures to a chair “May I?”

She gives a polite nod and they both take a seat across from one another. 

“Are we alone, my lady?” 

“Shae,” Sansa pauses until her handmaiden surfaces from the bedroom, “Would you be a dear and head out to the city for me? I am in dire need of some new thread.” 

Shae courtesies dutifully, giving Lord Varys a frown on her way out the door. 

“What is it that requires such subterfuge, my Lord?” Sansa jokes when they are alone. 

Lord Varys becomes quiet for a moment, then, “If I may speak freely, Lady Sansa…”

“Yes, of course.”

“I am quite concerned about the well-being of the King.”

Sansa’s eyebrows could not rise higher if she tried, “Excuse me?” 

“Yes, he seems to be growing increasingly…willful shall we say. Refuses to hear any arguments against his commands. And when proposed alternatives, he becomes overtly hostile. I am worried that there may be something wrong,” his gaze remains fixed on hers.

“I’m sorry, I am just confused. Why come to me, Lord Varys?” Sansa’s smile is tight. 

“Well we both know the answer to that, Lady Sansa.” 

Her gaze sharpens, and she stiffens ever so slightly in her seat. 

“Really? I must confess, my Lord, I haven’t an inkling as to what you are implying.”

And then she smells it. Yarrow. 

She lurches away from the table and backs herself into the corner, hissing at him. Her fangs have descended and she can feel the heat on her neck that signals that her pupils have expanded. On instinct, in response to the danger she can sense wafting off the man in front of her, Sansa’s nails have also extended several inches out from their natural length. Her breath is coming in harsh pants from behind her clenched teeth as she glares him down. 

The man breaks out of a stunned stupor caused by her supernatural speed, and cautiously rises from his chair. He holds his hands out in the universal sign for surrender, palms up facing her. This does not appease her. Her skin crawls when she inhales deeply through her nose and the stench of Yarrow seed causes her to whine and swipe at her nose to remove the offending stench. Lord Varys slides one hand into a fold within his robes and what he pulls out forces a guttural growl from her throat. 

“I wasn’t entirely certain; you're quite good at detecting my little spiders, Lady Sansa. They could never find you when you did not wish it so, but I had my suspicions. There is no doubt, now, though is there?” 

Sansa doesn’t answer, merely glowers hatefully. How dare he bring Yarrow seed to her rooms! The hubris! She should strip the skin from his body and pick her teeth with his bones. 

“This is a locket that I received from an old friend, long ago. He said it would come in handy one day. I can see he was right. If I didn’t hold this, there would be nothing stopping you from killing me, corerct?” Varys questions her. 

Yarrow is a highly unpleasant flowering plant with a very long history. The plant itself is fairly harmless despite the foul scent, but when ingested or placed in open wounds it is deadly to Sansa’s kind. Because the universe is created in balance, the Gods decided that for all of the strengths making them superior: her species must have a weakness that puts them back on an even playing field with the mortals. Yarrow is one such Achilles heel. Varys is right to fear her, but he is truly foolish if he believes that a crushed up bit of flower inside of a golden locket is going to stop her from ending his life, should she see fit. 

Sansa stands up from her crouch, “Lord Varys, you are very well informed, it seems.” 

She stalks back towards him, and when she is within reach, she lifts a curved, black claw up to the locket dangling from his fingers on a thin delicate chain. Twining the chain around her nail, she then pulls it taut. 

“Pardon my outburst, I was merely startled,” she flashes her fangs in a sneer, “but it seems that your information is faulty in one small aspect.” 

Lord Varys cocks his head slightly in question. 

“There IS nothing stopping me from killing you,” and with that she yanks the chain wrapped around her claw and it snaps. 

The locket falls and when it hits the floor it pops open, revealing the dried, crushed up leaves of a Yarrow flower. Sansa laughs at the startled on the Master of Spies face.

“That plant, these leaves,” she jerks her chin at the mess on the floor, “they’re quite offensive to my delicate senses, but merely touching them will not kill me. Surely, your sources informed you of that? Why else would you be here, a sudden desire to be devoured?” 

After composing himself, Lord Varys meets her eyes with an impressive amount of bravery; more than she has ever witnessed thus far in a mortal who is being stared down by her demon. 

“My lady, I came with protection- however poor it is- only so that I might buy some time to speak with you, in the case that you intended to kill me before you heard me out.” 

Sansa’s nose tells her that though there is an adequate amount of fear staining the air, there is no hint of deceit in this man’s scent. She can always smell a liar. 

“I must say, you have captured my attention, my lord. Please, enlighten me as to your true purpose then, if not to threaten me.”

“I wish to make an alliance with you,” is his immediate, blunt reply. 

‘Now, isn’t that interesting,’ Sansa muses, thinking back on Littlefinger's own proposal nigh on a fortnight past.

“Why?” 

At this inquiry, the balding man’s previously truthful scent becomes mixed with a streak of…not nervousness exactly, but perhaps a tension of some sort. She can smell the sweat that she sees beading on his smooth skull. 

‘His skull is literally shining, I wonder what it would be like to tear into such a texture where I am used to there being only hair…Like a human shaped apple…’ she licks her lips.

“Well?” she snaps, hoping that she may get to satiate her curiosity after all, granted that he proves to be less an asset and more of a liability. 

“I serve the good of the realm, my dear. And I do not know much about you, Lady Sansa, or how much better someone of your…particular nature would do on the Throne, but I do know that the current status of the Crown is not ideal. I cannot see the Lannister Reign ending well in any scenario.”

“Neither can I. Though, to be fair, that is because I intend to be the one to make it happen. Eventually. For now, they have their uses. I do not covet the Iron Throne, Lord Varys. Let us make that quite understood between us right now,” Sansa warns.

“Hmm…you do not want the Iron Throne, but what of the Northern one? The one your brother sought to claim.”

The North declared its independence from the Seven Kingdoms when the war for the Iron Throne broke out, and ever since they have maintained that decree, even after their King was murdered. Sansa wishes for only what the Northern lords desire, and if she were to announce herself to them, and they were to accept her, declare for her…then yes, she would do the best she could to honor them. That said, she isn’t sure she is going to actively seek to make it so. 

“I am unsure. Under a certain set of circumstances, I believe I would accept the title of Queen. But as it stands now, my only mission is to bring down all those have caused harm to me and mine. Anything or anyone else is simply collateral damage,” she gives him a pointed look at the end of her statement. 

“And what of the other contenders for the Throne? You would let whoever conquers Westeros successfully, be the next ruler? Stannis Baratheon, the Targaryen heiress?” 

“Stannis is a shell of a man, or so I’ve heard. The Lannisters destroyed his army and have him cornered at Dragonstone; it is highly unlikely he shall be in the position anytime soon to conquer anything more grueling than a wineskin of arbor gold. As for the infamous Mother of Dragons…” she trails off, turning to face an open window to her left. 

The sun has begun its descent to the horizon, and it’s radiating a vibrancy of hues across the evening sky. The scarlet tone painted closest to the earth reminds her of a flame burning brightly. Sansa used to love fire as an adolescent. It was always moving, shifting with the winds, and it had mesmerized her. The way that nothing could keep it from burning had inspired her; you couldn’t keep it still or control it, and if you tried it would only end up being extinguished. Sansa has come to feel that the flame signifies that which cannot be tamed in life: like herself. You cannot control her, or confine her, the only way to stop her is death, not an easy feat. The Mother of Dragons has been on the run from assassins since her father, Mad King Aerys himself was murdered, and the Throne besieged. Call her sentimental, but there is something...kin-like in her thoughts of the fierce woman.

When word from the masses across the Narrow Sea reported that Daenerys Targaryen birthed three dragons through pure and unselfish sacrifice, some doubted it to be true, in fact most did; but Sansa has learned that most people don’t like change, anything that forces them to redefine their views of the world. The last known dragon lived over three hundred years ago, any true witnesses to that era are dead and gone, and as a result, Sansa feels that the old magic that Westeros was created upon has slowly been disappearing from the hearts and minds of its inhabitants ever since.

Pardoning herself, Sansa has yet to hear of any others who have been born with the blood of the Old Gods running so strongly in their veins. Her demon, or monster, or whatever people want to call it, is a gift. Throughout the generations, the blood from the first noble Houses has become so diluted that very few of the existing nobles have any true heritage or connection to the ancestors. House Stark is one of the most ancient Houses still in existence, which is why Sansa believes she was born the way she is. Because of her strong ties to the Old Gods and the First Men, she refers to herself as a ‘Link,’ representing the twining of the past with the present. 

Daenerys Targaryen is the last living member of House Targaryen, and their bloodline has been around for as long as- if not longer than- Sansa’s own. She is inclined to believe in the girl, and her dragons. Her mother had always taught her to believe in the benefit of the doubt, often cautioning her to judging too quickly. 

‘Sometimes, people may surprise you. But in order for them to do that, you must to give them that benefit, sweet girl.’ 

The more Sansa replays the memory in her mind, the more she can see that maybe Daenerys is not the only one the saying could apply to. She sweeps her gaze critically over Lord Varys who has been waiting patiently for her reply and finds that despite the…incident with the Yarrow, there is nothing to indicate he wouldn’t be just the alliance she needs to further her agenda. His own agenda on the other hand is still up in the air- “the good of the realm” is not a ringing endorsement upon his skills at deception. Perhaps a little leeway, a little privacy, could be a better start to this relationship than fear as she had done with Joffrey though, so...

Sansa inhales deeply-ignoring the stench of Yarrow still permeating the air- and focuses on centering her emotions, once having done so she releases her grip on the change from human to Link, allowing her more animalistic features to mold back into their fairer mortal ones.

“...I can’t wait to meet her,” Sansa finishes, dark eyes connecting with his calculative gaze. 

Lord Varys’ eyes hold an unexpected emotion in them at her statement: respect. For what, she is not certain, perhaps he is more biased towards the silver-haired heiress than he had initially revealed to Sansa. The ‘why’ is of no import to her, but the fact that it is present, gives her faith that their collaboration will be a success; Respect being key to any good alliance. 

“Shall we discuss terms, Lord Varys?” 

“At your ease, my dear,” he agrees, before holding a finger up to signal for a moment of patience on her part.

He leans down with obvious difficulty and picks up the forgotten locket of Yarrow. She raises an eyebrow with a challenge in her eyes, Lord Varys does not disappoint. He walks to the brazier located at the back of the solar; and without breaking her stare, he flings the disgusting trinket onto the heated coals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh i forgot! FUN LITTLE FACT ABOUT YARROW: it was used in medieval times to treat bites from rabid dogs XD i thought that was a tad amusing given Sansa's peculiarities. Anyhoo please comment and let me know you thoughts! xoxox


	5. Kin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry this took so long to put up guys! Anyhoo I know I promised blood and gore in this chap, but I deviated. There IS a little bit of it but it's not by Sansa's hand this time. But I think you'll like who IS doing all the killing ;) Anyhoo enjoy! WARNING: not totally canon here regarding a certain character that you will know as soon as you come upon them ;) comment kudos yadda yadda love yall! xoxoxxo

Coming to a mutual agreement on where they stand, takes longer than Sansa would like. Lord Varys doesn’t seem to have an issue with any of her plans-at least the very vague few she has revealed to him- but he does have a problem with her appetite. And after three hours in discussion, Sansa finally decides to put him in his place. This alliance is not equal, it is not a partnership. He must learn that she is the superior one in their relationship. She is willing to concede on certain matters in order to attain his favor, but she refuses to allow another man to dictate her own personal affairs. 

“I am failing to see how it is any concern of yours what, or who I eat, Lord Varys.”

He winces at her word choice but looks otherwise un-phased, “My lady, I am only asking that you refrain from…partaking in any such activity within the walls of this city. It will draw unwanted attention that we cannot afford, if we are to go forth with your plans.” 

“I have heard quite enough. You have already told me this, and more, but I can handle myself, Varys. How do you think I have been surviving here? I know how to hunt. I know how to feed. I know how to remain hidden, and I do not need your assistance. That is the end of this conversation. Do you understand?” 

When he looks like he is going to argue, Sansa releases her fangs and bares them in irritation. 

“My kind is not known for their patience, and I have extended mine far past its limits these last couple hours, my lord.” 

“I think it wise that we conclude our discussion then, Lady Sansa,” he gulps, standing to leave. 

“Yes. We know where we stand, and you know what you must do next?” she checks.

Bowing to her he responds, “I will begin my preparations right away.”

She nods and waves her hand, dismissing him. When he is gone, Sansa sighs deeply, massaging her temples. For a ‘Master of Spies’ Lord Varys is surprisingly lacking in personal knowledge of the courts. At least, what he knows is not applicable to her plans. However, at least she can take pleasure in knowing that- according to a spy he has placed in the King’s quarters- Joffrey is having nightmares. Sansa is willing to bet she’s starring in at least half of them, if not all. He is still having difficulty with following through on her orders, though. Something has to be done or he will expose her, indirectly, by allowing those around him to come to the conclusion he is being manipulated. This will not do, perhaps she should have another chat with him. Soon. 

Forgetting about the Throne for a moment, Sansa lets her mind wander to more calming matters. Sandor and she have grown closer and closer this last year. Before, when they first met, she was only one and ten. A child, and he had frightened her so she distanced herself. But after she received her first moonblood (which he awkwardly witnessed), they had grown steadily more intimate with one another. Friends she would have dared to say. 

Then, during the Battle of the Blackwater, when he came into her room and demanded she escape with him, it broke her heart to say no. There was blood streaked across his face, and terror in his dark eyes, and she wanted so badly to leave, to follow him wherever he may go. But then there would be another explosion of wildfire, and she would recall why she couldn’t. She needed to stay, for her revenge. She couldn’t let them all get away with it. Couldn’t let a Lannister sit on the Throne. So he put a blade to her throat and demanded she sing for him, and she had done so gladly.

“Gentle Mother, Font of Mercy. 

Save our men from war, we pray. 

Stay the swords and stay the arrows,

Let them know a better day.”

The knife in his hand shook when he registered the way she doctored the lyrics. He just stood there and gazed at her, tears flowing freely from his eyes, and he dropped the knife before turning his back and storming out the door. She was terrified that he would leave anyway, without her, but the next day when the smoke cleared, and the fires died down, there he stood. Her protector. Ever since, they have developed a close bond, but they’ve never discussed it, or what happened that night. It weighs heavily on her mind at times, wondering if he stayed for her, if it meant something. 

Sansa prides herself on her courage. Where once she would have cowered beneath those who sought to demean her, now, she has risen above. Her ‘change’ allowed her that bravery, that freedom that others don’t have. But she’s still weak in one regard: her love for Sandor. And she cannot bring herself to bare her heart to him unless she knows he feels the same. But alas, she’ll probably only find out if she asks. As direct as he is, Sandor’s never been known to talk about feelings or emotions, she can tell it makes him feel vulnerable. And she can understand why he wouldn’t want to be that way, after what happened when he was a child. But she wants to heal him; she wants to show him that it can be good. That they can be good. She just doesn’t know how. Suddenly the door bursts open, startling Sansa out of her thoughts. 

“My lady! My lady we have to go! We need to get to Maegor’s holdfast!” Shae shouts hurriedly, sprinting toward her. 

She pulls her up from her recliner by the fireplace, and proceeds to drag her to the door before Sansa can speak a word. 

“Shae! What is going on? Seven Hells, slow down!” she forces them to a halt. 

“There is no time, Lady Sansa! There’s been an attack on the city and they’ve already breached the castle walls! We have to hide!” Shae explains frantically, pulling on her arm. 

“An attack? By who!?” Sansa says, shocked.

The Baratheons are out of the game, for now at least, and the Targaryen girl is overseas still. The North rallies for their own throne, but they don’t have nearly enough troops to make it through King’s Landing this quickly before the castle sounded the alarm. Whoever is here did so covertly. They have skill, and apparently the numbers to work through the city guard. 

Shae turns fearful eyes on her mistress, “They don’t know, Lady Sansa. They’re not from any House that we know of nor are they flying any sigils. It’s unprecedented.”

“Okay, alright. Let’s get to the holdfast. We’ll be safe there, don’t worry,” Sansa soothes her, seeing the terror in her usually fearless friend’s eyes. 

They sprint down the hall and into the open courtyard, which they must pass through to get to the famed safe room. The courtyard is in absolute chaos. There are women and children running around, screaming. And Sansa can see some of the Lannister guards fighting off the enemy. But what grabs her attention isn’t who these people are, but what. And it isn’t numbers that are aiding them in their attack, it is strength.

“Links,” Sansa breathes, incredulous. 

How can this be? I thought there were so few left? What if I’m mistaken? 

But even as she thinks it, Sansa knows she’s not wrong. The evidence is undeniable. There are men with black claws extended from their fingers, and an equally dark blackness in their eyes. Those would be her kind. Her kin. There are other links as well, but only one kind that she can identify from this distance. There are a couple of women with bright golden irises and fangs that come from both the top and the bottom of their gums. Those would be The ‘Tigris,’ fierce warrior women that hail from the land known as the Red Waste in Essos. The only reason Sansa recognizes them is because she came across a young Tigrate girl several moons ago, whilst she was on a rare trip through the markets. 

The girl had sensed the Link heritage in Sansa and taken pity on her lack of knowledge. She informed Sansa on what she was, which is how she knows that their species are called Links, and she spent hours teaching Sansa everything she knew of their species, and the many different kinds that existed. This was the first time Sansa learned of what her own kind were called: The ‘Canis’ or sometimes The ‘Lupine.’ (Ironic to Sansa because it literally translated to 'wolf' which is her family's House Sigil.)

Unfortunately, the girl also made sure Sansa knew that they were a dying breed, that centuries upon centuries of diluted bloodlines, were eliminating the magic that awoke in Links during their coming of age years. Sansa’s moonblood had been her own awakening into both a woman and a Link. And so she had resigned herself to the fact that she would likely meet very few of her species within her lifetime, and felt blessed that the little Tigrate had found her. Obviously, they were wrong.

There must be at least forty or fifty of them, Sansa notes, in wonder. 

And they are every bit as vicious as she is. As Sansa watches, a middle-aged Tigrate man with an auburn beard thrusts his fist through the iron chest place of a Lannister guard and when he pulls it back out, the man’s heart is still beating in the palm of his hand. 

“My lady? We have to find another way around, we cannot go through there!” Shae screams, when she sees it too.

“Shh, it’s going to be alright, Shae, I promise,” she turns to the protesting woman.

“I need you to do something for me,” Shae frowns but nods, “find Sandor and have him take you to Maegor’s okay? There’s a passage through the crypts, go now. I will meet you   
there.”

She starts shaking her head before Sansa finishes, “No! I cannot leave you here! You’ll be killed!” 

Sansa allows the change to happen, feeling the heat on the nape of her neck rise in temperature. 

“No, Shae. I will explain everything later okay? I’m going to be just fine,” She says, fangs digging into her bottom lip as she does so. 

At first it seems like her handmaiden will faint, but then she takes a few deep breaths and looks into Sansa’s pitch eyes when she gives her acquiescence. Sansa in return, gives her a reassuring grin and sends her back the way they came. She watches as her friend takes numerous glances back to see Sansa’s true features, but finally Shae gives her a tentative, but real smile before turning completely and running to find Sandor. 

Sansa whips back around to face the carnage, when she hears a loud roar headed straight for her. Crouching down in a defensive position, she bares her teeth and growls back at the encroaching Link. He stops in his tracks, and Sansa can see it is the heart-ripper who had been intent on attacking her. He cocks his head before flashing his teeth in a feral grin. He throws his head back and lets loose an ear-splitting shriek that reverberates through the courtyard and likely the castle too. Immediately, Sansa can see the effect.   
The rest of the Links let out their own answering shrieks, and they become frenzied in their attacks on the guards, finishing them off quickly. She can hear similar shrieks in the distance a few seconds later that sound as if they’re coming from different parts of the castle, confirming her theory on the distance of his cry. 

Sansa keeps her eyes on the Tigrate man as he circles her, eyeing her from head to toe. With her peripheral vision she can see the rest of the creatures in the area converge upon the two of them, forming a loose circle around her. It appears this man is the leader. Sansa waits for them to do something, anything, and while they stand there still and silent, more Links emerge from various doorways around the courtyard. Some of them are even leaping out of windows from places high up, and landing on the ground, unharmed, before striding to stand in the grouping around her. Her nose tells her just as her eyes can see that every Link there is absolutely drenched in blood. 

Finally Sansa releases the man’s gaze to stare at some of the others, and they are all staring back. The different shining of colors in their eyes creates a strange effect, and that coupled with their claws and fangs, some even have scales, only emphasizes their preternatural heritage. Rather than feeling out of place, though, for once in her life, Sansa feels like she’s found her place. These are her people. They may all have different bloodlines, and different abilities, or different looks, but they are all descended from the Old Gods, and they are her kin. 

So she comes out of her defensive crouch, and smiles, fangs and all, “Hello, my name is Sansa Stark.”

The red-bearded man, after having spent ten minutes giving her the once-over and seeming to approve, laughs heartily and sticks his hand out, “Lord Jon Connington, my Lady. It is a pleasure to meet you. But we already know who you are. You’re the reason we’re here.” 

Connington…? Why does that name sound so familiar? Sansa wonders, but then the next part of his reply sinks in.   
“Um, I-I’m sorry, what?” Sansa sputters.

“You met my daughter, Ingrid, a while back, did you not?” Lord Connington turns and waves someone from the crowd forward. 

A young, thin girl with his looks comes up next to him and puts her arm around his. When she looks up at her, through the blood covering her angelic features, Sansa can recognize the little girl from so long ago that taught her the ways of their people. 

“Ingrid? That’s a lovely name,” Sansa gives her a small smile. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you! I had to keep it a secret,” she pleads with Sansa. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart. But I don’t understand, what are you all doing here?” she directs the second part to Connington. 

“Isn’t it obvious? We’ve come to your aid. It is well known across all of Westeros and even parts of Essos that the Lions are keeping you hostage here, my Lady, but when my Ingrid told us that she met the captive daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and that she was one of us, we knew we had to come,” he replies. 

Oh, dear. They thought she needed rescuing? How sweet. 

“That’s very kind of you, my Lord, but if I wanted to leave, I am sure you all know that I could have. I haven’t left because I have things to do here. Things that can only be done from the inside.”

Lord Connington has an understanding look on his face when he nods. 

“Of course, we gathered that you could find a way out of trouble if needed,” he agrees easily, “but we would still like to help however we can Lady Stark. You’re one of us. And considering there are so few descendants of the Old Gods and far too many of the First Men, we need to look out for one another.”

Sansa isn’t sure what to do. She’s never been in such a situation. Should she turn them away and handle everything herself? Not that it’s going to well at the moment. But then she remembers what she told Joffrey about revealing herself. She didn’t plan on doing so just yet, and she had told Varys the exact same thing, but now…looking around at all the carnage that her brethren have wrought upon the castle, and presumably the city, she’s not sure she has much of a choice. She can’t help but think it might be a blessing in disguise. She won’t be alone in it; her kin will be there to quell any uprising from the people. And she can handle the Lannisters herself. 

Oh Gods, are we really going to do this? Sansa’s thinks in disbelief. 

But then she looks up at the eyes gazing back at her, at the happiness so obvious in their postures and expressions at having found another of their kind; She surveys the courtyard, taking in the mangled corpses of the Lannister guards, and to her surprise, the few brave noblemen and women hovering at the edges of the courtyard watching them cautiously. They look frightened, but not disgusted like she imagined they would. It’s more like they are in awe. A swell of pride rises up in Sansa’s chest when she thinks about her people. 

Maybe it won’t be as bad as I think, if it’s done right, Sansa concedes, but we have to be careful.

“Did you leave anyone alive on your way into King’s Landing?”

“Of course,” a woman with turquoise scales covering her body pipes up in stilted Common Tongue, “we kill only armed man when we sneak in the walls. We made sure to do it quiet, in dark places or alone. If there were witnesses they make no noise.” 

“That’s actually perfect. Thank you,” Sansa smiles at her, “what about inside the castle?”

The woman becomes silent and looks to Connington. 

“I instructed them only to maim, not kill. And only those who stood in the way of their search for you: guards, noblemen and the like. That is where the stealth ended, and the Lions raised the alarm.” 

Sansa nods slowly, and then takes a deep breath, preparing herself for what’s next. 

“There will be more guards soon, it looks like you killed the majority the bulk of their army is away at Harrenhal, but the Lannisters will call for assistance from neighboring Houses. So, we have to move quickly.” 

The crowd of Links murmurs in confusion, looking at each other. 

“What is it you want us to do, Lady Sansa?” Ingrid queries up at her from under her father’s arm. 

She smiles gently down at the child, and kneels to be level with her. 

“We are going to take the city, little one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. That happened. XD And we got to meet someone everyone in the GoT fandom should know but he's not got the same story here, yes he is still that guy that was all up in Rhaegar Targaryen's business but he didn't have anything to do with some Aegon poser kay? Not going that route in this story its all bout my girl Daenerys in that aspect. Comments? Criticisms? (CONSTRUCTIVE please.) :) xoxo


	6. Poise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of a filler, with some explanations behind a couple of the Link breeds and a small sliver of Sansa/Tywin action (not of a sexual nature but perhaps borderline if you squint). More to come, Loves. xoxoxo (up next more Joffrey getting his comeuppance).

The Link group- which she later found out had created themselves a new House, House Bedene or Bloodline- take her orders in stride, despite her inferiority to them. Lord Jon Connington says it is because her young age and lack of experience do not matter in the Links’ minds. It is the bloodlines that determine hierarchy, just like with the First Men: The Iron Throne will go to the one whose birth right is strongest- in theory. And the Links, as children of the Old Gods, will follow her because the Stark bloodline is the oldest and the strongest of all the others. They believe that there is a greatness within her that will show with time, but for now they will have faith in her heritage rather than experience. It is an odd concept that they are willing to follow a young girl just because of who her ancestors were. But at the same time, Sansa welcomes the trust and respect because she has never felt it’s like before. 

She dispatches the Tigris, as the most aggressive to round up all the noblemen and women (excluding the Lannisters) inside of Maegor’s Holdfast, and escort them to the Throne room. The Lupine as the strongest, get the task of preventing anyone from leaving, and the Bovem- the calmest and most sturdy- will guard the doors to prevent anyone from entering. Last but not least, Sansa sends the Anguis- the silent and most cunning Links- to prowl different areas of the castle looking for those who may have hidden inside and not in the holdfast. 

While Sansa has only had time to meet with Ingrid, she feels relatively comfortable with the Tigris because of it. She is herself, a Lupine, so she’s well aware of how to deal with them also. The two wild cards are the Bovem, and the Anguis. Especially the latter.

Bovem Links are- according to Ingrid Connington- a tranquil and sure-footed people. They have horns that protrude from behind either ear, the males are approximately a hand’s length, and the females are half that and twist into tight curls. A Boveem will usually also have very strong hands and are exceptionally well-balanced. When they were plentiful centuries ago, they inhabited mostly mountains and other rock-covered surfaces. As an adaptation, they can scale walls with only their hands and feet, and drop from great heights, landing unharmed. They do not seem to be the troublesome type to Sansa. 

The Anguis, on the other hand, are known for their cunning and sly abilities to slip in and out as they please. They are exceedingly loyal, as are all Links, but they will still find ways to show…a bit of rebellion. This has earned them a less than honest reputation. However, it is one of their best qualities: their ability to sneak. They can fade in and out of the shadows without ever making their presence known. Anguines are usually assigned the espionage tasks. They are covered in scales from head to toe, but this is their greatest defense, because not unlike a chameleon, they can change their scales to help them blend into their surroundings. When they are not using this, most of them have scales that are a hue in the blue shade spectrum. In addition, they have longer tongues than most other people which allow them to taste various things in the atmosphere (strong pheromone –inducing emotions, food, weather, etcetera.) Sansa is wary of them but would like to trust them, given time. 

After she has sent off everyone to a task, she turns to the two she left out. 

“Lord Connington, Ingrid, I was wondering if perhaps you two would like to round up the royal family with me?” Sansa grins mischievously.

Connington bows and gestures for her to lead the way, while Ingrid whoops with joy and runs ahead of them. 

“Does she know where she’s going?” Sansa raises an eyebrow at the little girl’s enthusiasm.

Connington laughs, “No, probably not, but I let her alone unless she mucks up the works.” 

They stroll leisurely down the hall as they talk, stepping over the bodies of guards and nobles alike along the way. Sansa makes sure to pick up the trail of her dress at first, but after the third set of bodies in their way, she leaves it down. 

Oh well, she muses as she peers at the red liquid rapidly staining her dress with each body in their path, I always did like the that particular shade against my skin. 

“How old is she? I would think she isn’t old enough yet for her moonblood, and isn’t that how we transform?” Sansa is struck by the thought while watching Ingrid prancing ahead of them. 

Jon sighs, “No, a transformative impact on your life is all it takes, as the gaining the ability to bear children is. Most of our female sisters simply reach maturity before experiencing anything traumatic enough to trigger it early. My Ingrid, is one of those unfortunate few. And no, I do not wish to discuss it for now if that is alright, my lady.”

Sansa puts her hand on his arm and pats it softly, but remains silent.

“Hurry up! You are walking like Naturals,” Ingrid groans, appearing suddenly to pull on her father’s arm. 

“Naturals?” Sansa queries. 

Ingrid rolls her eyes, “You know, those who aren’t SUPERnatural? We just call them Naturals.”

“Ahh, of course. Why else?” Sansa chuckles.

They pick up the pace so that in the off chance they aren’t on alert, they can catch Joffrey and Tywin Lannister unawares. But then, it seems likely they’re holed up in the King’s Tower and the Tower of the Hand, respectively with the other members of the family. Either way, the outcome will be the same, so she doesn’t fret on it for long. The path toward the Tower of the Hand happens to be closer from their current position so Sansa steers them there first. Let Joffrey languish in his terror for just a bit longer. 

The entrance to the Hand’s quarters is double-doored, a feature only shared by the King’s rooms, and is the shade of blood. Actually, given the amount of dead men surrounding it- presumably killed protecting it- Sansa isn’t quite sure if that was its original color, or if it is blood belonging to the poor fools who died for a man like Tywin Lannister. 

What a waste, she thinks while nudging a body out of her way with her slipper covered foot. 

“Tywin Lannister!” Lord Jon shouts through the doors.

Sansa holds his daughter by her side, and when he gives Sansa a questioning look after Lannister doesn’t reply, she nods curtly, and he suddenly whips out a leg and forces one of the doors open with such momentum that the wood splinters at the hinges. Urging Ingrid to her father, Sansa glides inside and takes stock of the area for the man in question. 

She doesn’t need to look long, for he is standing by the fireplace, sharpening his broadsword on a whetstone. Connington chuckles from behind her when he sees this and Sansa can’t help but let the corner of her mouth twitch as well. It is highly amusing that he believes he can take them on alone. 

“Lord Hand,” Sansa speaks levelly.

Tywin’s busy hands pause, and his head tilts up just enough for his eyes to peek out at her from under his furrowed brows. 

“Lady Sansa…” 

His gaze then turns to Connington and if Sansa thought he was surprised at seeing her, it is nothing compared to when he lays eyes upon her new acquaintance.

“Lord Connington!?” He grips his sword and stands up, “What in Seven Hells are YOU doing here? I thought you were dead!”

Frowning Sansa rounds on the man who apparently has more secrets than he let on. 

“Who are you?” 

Connington looks apologetically at her, but answers Tywin first with a less than pleased expression.

“You should know better than to believe words from the mouths of spies, Lannister. I ain’t dead, and I don’t plan on being so for quite some time. You on the other hand, well that’s yet to be decided.” 

Veins begin throbbing visibly all over Tywin’s face as Sansa watches him become more enraged, “You bastard! I knew Robert should have killed you, instead of exiling you. Allow me the pleasure of doing it myself!” 

He charges at Connington with his sword poised for attack, when a swift little blur knocks into his chest and forces him down onto his back. Ingrid is livid, and while her little fists are working at prying apart his armor- she can’t yet punch through steel like her father can- her lips are pulled back over her double fangs and she is trying to get to Tywin’s jugular. The man under attack is shouting and pulling at the girl’s hair to get her off of him but it does nothing to slow her frenzy. Sansa thinks it is endearing that Ingrid wants to protect her perfectly capable father, but she is also growing impatient. Tywin is hers to kill if she pleases, and she made that clear to Connington, so she turns her eyes on him, and he clears his throat before stepping over to detach his wayward daughter from Sansa’s claimed prey. 

Ingrid goes limp when her father puts her over his shoulder, and he turns to walk out the room and wait in the hall. 

Sansa hasn’t forgotten yet though, “We will speak later, on how it is you two know each other so well, my lord.”

She doesn’t look away from Tywin’s face through her statement, and merely gives a tilt of her head at Jon’s affirmative grunt. Tywin pulls himself back to his feet and runs a hand over the mangled metal that was once his chestplate. Ingrid’s little hands had just about torn it apart. The befuddled look on his face makes Sansa want to giggle, but she shoves the urge down violently and waits for him to acknowledge her.

“What the fuck was that?” Are the first words that come from his mouth.

Sansa's gaze never wavers from his face. 

“And what of you, Lady Sansa? You know this won’t end well for you,” Tywin warns, turning his attention to her.

She spread her lips into a thin smile, and releases her fangs, feeling her eyes change at the same time. The Lord Hand’s eyes widen comically and though he quickly wipes the fear from his features, he cannot banish it from his eyes. 

“Such brave words from someone at a sever disadvantage, my Lord Hand.” 

At her blatantly insolent tone, Tywin’s fear diminishes briefly as his infamous ire flares. 

“Watch your mouth, girl.” 

Sansa bristles at the command. No man shall ever command her again. Especially not some washed up old glory hound with delusions of a leaving behind a grand legacy. Her fingers are tingling, eager to unsheathe her beast’s claws. Sansa narrows her eyes and stalks predatorily to him. She can see his ire dying down and wariness replacing it as she draws nearer. 

“On the contrary, my lord, it’s your mouth that seems run away with you.” 

Tywin glares down at her when she halts less than a foot away from him. She drags her hands slowly up the sides of armor and when she reaches the hole Ingrid made in the breastplate, she slides her hands into it, feeling around on his chest. He is wearing a single layer of thin cotton, a shift of some sort most likely to keep the armor from chafing. Her actions clearly bewilder him as his glare turns into a confused frown, but before he can open his mouth to say anything, Sansa uses the slightest twitch of her wrist to rip a hole in the cloth. Tywin sucks in a deep breath through his teeth, and Sansa looks up at him from under her lashes.

“Is something the matter, Lord Tywin?” 

The taunt comes out in a husky purr, and she can see his eyes darken. Sansa is not blind, and thus, it is common knowledge that though he is older than most, Tywin’s good looks are still quite prevalent. He is in the best shape a man his age could possibly be and that is not something any of the women at court would scoff at. And though his hair is white and rather thin, the gold-tinged beard on his face draws many an admirer. It is his poor attitude that Sansa suspects is the only reason women have steered clear of him for the last quarter of a century. And despite being almost a fourth of his age, Sansa can appreciate how some women would find the Lord Hand desirable. She was never one of them. 

No, she more than most, got to taste that acidic wit and ruthless iron fist whilst in captivity and he could no sooner hold a single iota of her admiration than could the maggots that accrue inside the bloated flesh of a corpse. 

But she can see the cautious interest in his eyes, despite seeing her true monstrous visage, a man is still a man, and she is a woman after all. She is also helping him along by secreting a cocktail of pheromones into the air around them. All the Links have this ability, it has a sort of hypnotic effect on the opposite sex, and is usually a signal that they are willing to mate, at least amongst her own species; Ingrid had never heard of it being used to sway humans so thus, Sansa has no knowledge of it either. Of course not that Tywin will know any of this. He will likely only feel a loosening of his tongue, a slight haziness behind the eyes, and a building heat in his loins (if it works as it should between Links). 

Sansa always did despise those who played with their food, but perhaps, she thinks, she is beginning to feel the allure. 

“What do you think you are doing, Lady Sansa?” 

Sansa leans in and puts her lips to his ear as her hands travel the slick flesh of his sweat soaked skin, now bare to her through the gaping hole in his armor. 

“Whatever do you mean? Are you accusing me of something, my Lord?” 

Sansa floods the air once more, and decides to see if she can put him in enough of a daze to forget everything that happened before she began playing with him. It would make questioning him easier if he did not have the anger at seeing Jon Connington still fresh within his mind. She opens her mouth and licks a stripe from the edge of his jawbone up behind his ear. A major erogenous zone for humans where she knows her pheromones will have a more direct effect. 

Tywin makes to push her away, seemingly shocked out of his stupor momentarily at the contact, but when she softly blows on the spot she just licked, his breath comes out in a ‘whoosh’ and he relaxes instantly. 

“There’s a good boy,” Sansa purrs and strokes his chest once more. 

She brings her head back to make eye contact and can see that his pupils are blocking out nearly the entirety of his iris. Apparently some of the effects of the trick are the same for both humans and Links. 

She pulls her hand away, keeping the eye contact.

No reaction. Just that faraway stare.

Sansa growls, annoyed by the dissatisfaction she feels. She has decided that this little experiment is pointless. She wants him screaming and begging not pliant and malleable. He is supposed to suffer damn it! 

So she releases him from her chemical hypnosis, and when the clarity bleeds back into his eyes, and he realizes how close he is to her, he flinches backwards. Sansa lets out a brief amused chortle. 

As if, she scoffs. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Tywin shouts. 

Sansa smiles beatifically, “Oh, nothing, my Lord. Just a bit of an experiment. Now I have quite a few questions for you, but I am afraid I must attend to the matter of your family first. So you will be going with Lord Connington until then.” 

Hearing himself be summoned, Jon comes in through the door once again and drags Tywin away in the midst of an irate tirade. 

“I’ll not answer any fucking questions, and you can’t make me go anywhere! Unhand me at once,” He attempts to yank himself out of Lord Connington’s grip but of course, he fails against the superior strength of her new friend. 

Sansa watches him for a moment before exiting the room herself and turning the opposite way of the undignified lion being towed away.

It’s time to find Joffrey.


	7. Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Im so sorry it's been so long you guys! My mom has been really sick and so have I but here's a little tidbit for yall. It's really short but it's all I had time for so I hope you enjoy it! (no blood or gore but we do get to see Sansa take another milestone as a Link)

It isn’t difficult to locate Joffrey’s hiding place, even without Connington at her side. The boy’s fear reeks. Sansa comes to a halt outside his chamber, but stills before entering. Cocking her head to the side, she gives a low trill of amusement. It seems he thought himself clever hiding in the adjacent room instead of his own. There are four men inside with him. Their heartbeats a steady thrum, a healthy dose of fear taints their individual scents. She takes the few steps away from Joffrey’s chambers and pushes through the door to boy’s sanctuary. Immediately upon her entrance fully to the room, Joffrey wails.

“Kill her!” 

The men move hesitantly as if unsure they should harm her. Likely the fact that she is unarmed and a lady at that, they think her no threat, but still she can forgive them this if they were to lay down their weaponry and allow her to take what is hers: their liege’s life. 

“There are many ways this can go, sers. If you choose to fight for this sniveling quim, then your lives are forfeit. Lay down your swords and flee if you like, and I will not stop you.”

The guards, one which she now sees is Oakheart- a kinder man than most in the Kingsguard with a deep hate for his liege- look between each other and to their king. 

“But know this: whatever your decision, Joffrey Lannister’s life will end here.” 

At this, they each return their gazes to hers, and almost as one they lower their swords. She smiles gently and steps to the side, leaving the exit open. They go single file, softly stepping as if to see whether she is toying with them. When she makes no move they rush out the door and down the hall, their heavy boots slipping through the still wet blood on the floors is the only noise in this quiet corner of the castle. Joffrey stands still, his skin a shock of white against the golden brown of the walls in the small corner he’s backed himself into. Sansa takes a few steps closer and watches his face fill with blood, from ire no doubt. 

“I am your King! You will all pay for this!” He bleats to the backs of his retreating guards. 

Sansa merely watches as his anger flickers and dies, watches as he realizes what comes next. His eyes don’t leave her as she circles him as best she can with his back to a wall. She feels that burgeoning flame fill her chest, the one that always comes when she imagines a life free of this foolish, cruel child, of a world where the Lannisters do not exist. Only now the flame needn’t be stifled from the eyes of others, now she can let it free, because it is finally time. 

She licks her lips slowly and they spread into a smile, feeling the flames lick up her arms and her neck to settle behind her eyes and fingertips. But it doesn’t stop there, not this time. She lets the heat consumer her entirely. Her bones are shifting, it is agony, this first change. But instinctively she knows this is it. This is how it happens. This will be her glory.

The sounds of a dress tearing at the seams and a growl from her curled lips fill the air. Before she loses the ability of human speech, Sansa manages one last parting gift to Joffrey. 

“Run.” 

He squeals and trips in his haste to get around the mass of fur and flesh writhing on the floor. He doesn’t turn back to see what she becomes. 

Finally after what seems like an eternity, the flames recede. The direwolf left in her place, sitting amidst the tatters of Lady Sansa’s dress wobbles a bit on its new legs before standing. She scents the air, and amidst the new scents and old, she finds what she’s looking for, the scent of fear and piss leaked from an arrogant child who took her word and fled. She raises her snout and bays to the rapidly darkening sky. 

The hunt is on.


	8. Feed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not beta'd nor was the last chapter sorry for any mistakes! This chap marks a milestone for the story, the first big scene to happen: we say goodbye to someone we all hate with a passion. I hope you like it!

The change is something that she’s thought about for months; ever since her first partial shift after receiving her maiden blood almost five years ago. Ingrid had informed her that a full change has not happened for many winters. The blood that the Links share is enough to imbue them with the powers of their ancestors but not the form. Sansa thinks back to the tale the little girl wove of great beasts that simmer beneath the skin of man and woman and child alike, remembers the way Ingrid’s eyes lit up with awe yet flickered in desolation when the ending was told and it settled in that she would never feel her true form. 

Sansa remembers, yet every second she is inside this new skin, her true skin she feels the story for what it is: unfinished. Winter is coming and something about this winter in particular leaves her unsettled, her hackles shivering. Change will come as well it seems. 

Her bones shift sinuously beneath her auburn fur-well what little she can see of herself through her own eyes- and her claws clack gently on the stone floors as she tests her weight on these strange yet somehow familiar legs. Her pulse is a steady thrum in her ears, but beyond that when she focuses she can hear so much farther than ever before! It’s exhilarating, and as she catalogues these new sounds with ease, testing her eye sight as well with a sweeping glance around the darkened room. 

And that’s when it hits her, now that she’s calmer more focused, a scent is rising steadily above the rest, curling up to her snout when she tilts it towards the ground. It is even more mouthwatering while in this form, thick and heady, and masked slightly beneath the smell of the oncoming rain drifting through the open window to her left, but she can still easily identify it. 

Fear. 

‘Good, he should fear me, as I once feared him,’ Sansa smirks inwardly, and almost without her consent, a throaty growl tears from between her bared fangs. 

Sansa considers for a moment how much time has passed that she has allowed the boy to run, finds it satisfactory to amount to an adequate chase, and lets the tide of her beast wash over her. A voice all its own, her monster demands of her: feed.

With one last turn of her nose to the ground to cement his scent in her mind, Sansa sets herself free and launches her body through the door in a single leap nearly colliding with the wall opposite the doorway. Well then, it appears this body’s strength and speed will take some getting used to, she muses to herself. 

The hall is dimly lit, no one having lit the torches that line the walls as they are no doubt preoccupied with fending off her brethren. The sky is pitch black, like tar. The storm that had been looming all day has finally taken its place directly above the Red Keep with thundering clouds so dark they cannot be seen if one was tempted to look. 

On a normal given day, storms were common in the North and Sansa has always loved the electricity in the air and the violent beauty of nature. She had not seen one come this far south in years. Her new form feeds off of the currents running through the air, causing her pulse to rise and her senses to heighten. It is euphoric. 

She lifts her head and howls once, twice, thrice- some primitive instinct telling her to alert the surrounding area of her approach- before resuming her tracking. The floor is covered in blood almost entirely, it is strong enough to cause her a slight pause, but her nose can still pick up Joffrey’s fear, and her eyes can see where he carelessly tred on foot through the puddles of blood. There are other footprints of course, but none quite so small as to belong to that of a boy. She is careful to crouch when approaching the arcs that come every few minutes in these halls, as her monster is far too tall for this marble cage. Sansa reckons she must be taller than the average direwolf by at least a few feet; perhaps even taller than most breeds of horses as well. 

She has reached a point where the hall bisects and must decide which way her prey has fled. She barely slows her pace as she takes the path to the left. His scent is stronger and more acrid, thicker somehow. The child must have soiled himself. Her beast releases a pleased rumble at this conclusion. 

There are no bodies in this direction, no blood either. This is the servant’s hall if Sansa is recalling correctly. It is a wonder Joffrey managed to find it at all, she thinks wryly, I am certain he’s never deigned to seek out the living quarters of his chattel. 

There are lights underneath some of the doors, but her ears detect no bodies moving around inside, nor heartbeats. But there- just up ahead perhaps the eighth door in the hall. There is neither light nor sound that would be detectable by human ears. But she is not human, thus she hears quite clearly the rapid, pounding pulse slightly muffled- no doubt he’s hidden himself somewhere- but definitely coming from this room. 

As she is on paws and has nothing with which to turn the knob, it is likely locked either way if he has any sense at all-Sansa turns herself parallel to the door and with a swift thrust up against it, the sturdy wood splinters and breaks off its hinges, crashing to the floor with a loud thump. 

The room is much smaller than the one she was in last and thus harder to enter but she manages it with agility- big this body may be, but also slim and flexible. There is a small bed in the corner, with no other furnishings save for a desk on the opposite side and a small chest on the floor, presumably for wardrobe keeping. 

He couldn’t have picked a worse room to hide in, Sansa thinks to herself. 

His scent is drenched in the small room, due to its small size and the fact that there are no windows through which the room can air out. But she has no need for her nose now, there is only one place he could conceivably hide: under the bed. 

Child’s play, she smirks.

The sound seems to do what the thundering of her entrance failed to do and startles Joffrey. The small gasp he makes isn’t needed for her to pinpoint his location, his heartbeat has done that all on its own. She follows the rapidly pounding sounds of a muscle coursing with adrenaline to the small bed. When she has reached within a foot of it, Joffrey takes it upon himself to use what little bravado he possesses to swipe at her feet with a blade of some sort. He manages to graze her left paw, but Sansa ignores the sting as if it is naught but a papercut and darts her head down to wrap her teeth around the bony wrist that is trying to retreat back under the bed. Joffrey wails and attempts to wrench his arm out of her massive jaws; his thrashing is pitifully useless. Sansa tightens her grip on his arm and yanks him out into the open, flinging with enough force to send him flying across the floor and into the wall. 

The back of his head hits the stone and the noise it makes is an obscene squelch. He is bleeding profusely, his eyes when he turns them on her are cloudy- a concussion is likely- but he staggers to his feet, clutching his bitten arm to his chest. 

Sansa rises to her full height and stands absolutely still. Intrigue as to what he will do next to escape blooms inside her, though she will not maintain the curiosity for long; her beast wants more blood than the paltry bit that has been shed thus far. 

The Bastard King shakes even as his legs tense, a pose set to flee. Sansa wonders if he is that monumentally stupid, or if it’s the adrenaline making him reckless. Lowering her head so it’s at eye level to the short boy, Sansa’s monster lets a deeper, more gravelly rumble seep through her chest. Joffrey flinches back violently and whimpers as her lips curl to reveal her sharp teeth; saliva drips steadily as she relishes the taste of his fear on her tongue. 

“Stay back!” Joffrey shouts with wild eyes, “You stupid bitch, I don’t give a shit what you are! I am the King, you will pay for this!” 

It seems the boy truly has gone mad. Simply shouting the same things over and over again, like the words will come true if repeated enough. 

Enough of this, Sansa feels impatience welling within her, the time for talking is past. 

Feed, her monster purrs in agreement. 

So, she does. 

The shrieks and wails of the False King are an ear piercing annoyance, but they stop soon enough when her fangs latch onto his neck, slitting through his carotid artery with ease. The last thing the blond haired demented boy king sees, are her teeth dripping with his blood and her jaws gaping wide over his pale, wan face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read and review please!!


	9. Feed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, this is really kind of a filler chapter, i just needed it to get to my next scene. I still hope you enjoy it! The next one should be up sometime in the next twelve hours :)

The Tigris warrior keeps a firm hold on his old “friend” Tywin as he seeks to do the bidding of his Lady. Thrashing like a child makes it- not difficult, as he could never hope to match Jon’s strength, but irritating. Ingrid follows behind them silently, narrowed eyes watching this “revered” old lion. 

“Father, THIS is the man you served with under the Mad King?” 

At the clear derision in her tone, the Lord Hand makes to turn and no doubt yell at her, but Jon adjusts his hold, placing one hand around his neck with a thumb at his jugular. With a little pressure, Tywin collapses, limp in his arms. 

“Much better,” Jon murmurs to himself before turning to his daughter. 

“No, my dear. This is naught but the bitter shell of a once great warrior with the mind of a brilliant tactician and the occasional warmth of comradeship. This is not the man I served with.” 

Ingrid nods slowly before she tips her chin to her chest and looks at her feet studiously, “I’m sorry I lost control back there, Father. It won’t happen again.”

Lord Connington laughs uproariously and reaches to pat his girl on the shoulder, “All is well, my dear. But do try not to step out of line in front of Lady Sansa in the future.” 

The girl smiles bashfully, before turning suddenly serious, “Are you sure she’s the one? What about the silver haired lady in the Free Cities? I heard she has dragons! Couldn’t she be the one?” 

The tall, bearded man drops his captive carelessly and kneels to his daughter’s level. He places on hand on her shoulder and another on her cheek, his hand spans the entire left side of her face; that’s how small his little girl is. 

But no less fierce because of it, he thinks to himself, remembering those she helped slay in the courtyard. 

“Yes, my sweet Ingrid. The Targaryen heiress does possess the talent for birthing dragons and perhaps a few other qualities that mark her as special, but she is something else entirely, you need not worry about her for now. Lady Stark is the one who will bring the change to our ranks. She’s the one whose blood we require.”

Ingrid looks less assured despite the answer, and before her father removes his hands and goes to stand again she blurts out pleadingly, “But we aren’t going to hurt her, are we? She’s one of us!” 

Connington is startled by the question, then frowns, “No, we are not here to harm the Lady Stark. Wherever did you hear such nonsense?”

“The Anguis have been making noise, lately. Particularly, Maverick and Lilandra. I overheard them talking one night when they thought I was asleep. They say if Lady Sansa does not give it freely, they will take it by force, no matter what the scribes say.”

Connington’s brow furrows further in worry. The Anguis were known to be a bit…slippery in regards to loyalty, but they’ve never given an outright reason to be mistrusted. If his daughter heard correctly, then the Anguis might to be a problem. He will have to think more on this later, after some reconnaissance of his own. 

“Let us keep this between us for now, my dear.”

Giving a solemn nod, Ingrid turns her luminous eyes onto the unconscious man at her father’s feet. 

“What about him? Where will we put him while we wait for Lady Sansa?”

Her father turns his own glowing fiery eyes downward, but before he can reply there is a series of short howls rendered into the air. The cold finger of a shiver caresses his spine as he turns in the direction of the sound’s origin. That was no howl known to their kind. Of course to human ears it likely all sounds the same, but Connington has been around for a very long time, heard many a cry go up in the night. This howl was not made with the vocal chords of one of his own. No, this was something far more primal and guttural than they could manage.

“I had not thought it to happen so swiftly,” Connington whispers in awe. 

“Father?”

He holds a hand out for hers at the anxiety in her voice; she slips her hand into his immediately. 

“Let us make haste, Ingrid,” he ignores her inquisitive gaze and releases her hand to pick up his forgotten captive. 

They walk briskly on their way, searching for a suitable place to await their Lady.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rain begins to pour down onto King’s Landing, heedless of the chaos below. The Anguis are making their last rounds, sniffing out any who have hidden amongst the castles many hidden crevices and various nooks and crannies. Their sense of smell is the most heightened out of their brethren, and with their slithery tongues flicking out between their lips once in a while they can taste the pheromones of anyone within a relatively close range. 

A large male Anguine signals his partner from a window halfway up the side of a turret. When he receives a signal back- all clear- he retreats to the Throne Room. A half dozen or so of his own kind meet up with him along the way, finished with their own searches. No one has been found hiding, thus they line up along the hall leading to the room guarded by their brethren the Bovem, and shift their scales in tandem to melt into the plain stone walls at their backs. Their talent for absolute stillness-even slowing down their heartbeats until it’s almost undetectable- comes in handy here. All of them remain silent, waiting for their leader to make her presence known. 

The panic and anxiety leaks from beneath the large doors to the Throne Room, the Tigrate warriors frightened them a great deal, almost certainly. Not known for their gentility, the Tigris. The low rumbling of their Canis kin is also apparent, as they are guarding the doors from the inside. 

Naturals, Maverick scoffs inwardly, what pathetic attempts at bravery dare they make in the faces of the Canis? 

He makes eye contact with his partner, who has settled in directly across from him. Her lips curl sinuously in vindictive amusement at the obnoxious bleating of the Naturals. He takes a moment to bare his own teeth in response before closing his eyes to settle in for a long wait. He can hear commotion in a separate section of the Keep. The scent of blood, the distinct tenor of it is far too muted at this distance to tell who it belongs to, but it is freshly spilled that much he knows. 

The Stark girl must be wreaking a little havoc of her own; considering how long the list of grievances is, Maverick is of the opinion it shall be a bit of a wait before she appears to address the commoners they have corralled for her. 

He breathes slowly through his nose, and wills his heart to slow. 

Soon even his own mind silences itself, a sort of veil shrouds him, and the world fades to grey. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It doesn’t take long to strip the flesh from his bones, though it is tricky at times to avoid swallowing the bone shards that seem to have found their way into every major muscle she sinks her teeth into. His pale flesh has long since been devoured, the muscle nearly gone as well. She is undecided on consuming anything above his neck. Surely stupidity and madness such as that will have rotted what few brains the boy had possessed. But having Joffrey’s head as a keepsake is a strong motivation as well. 

Sansa clearly remembers the words he hurled at her the day he forced her to gaze upon her own father’s severed head. Gloating about after having her father’s, he would defeat her brother in battle and bring her his as well. The promise she made as she stared him down with tired, dry eyes, brings a bit of irony to mind. 

“Or maybe he’ll bring me YOURS.” 

Well, she couldn’t bring it to Robb- a deep lance of pain shoots through her chest- but she still has it to share with the world. A deed many shall praise her for; “Kingslayer” will never have sounded so sweet. 

When she has fed until her belly is full, though her beast protests- she leans back to find it has taken nearly every scrap of his pathetically slim body to fill her stomach, but she is still not satiated. 

Her monster seems to realize there is nothing left to eat, so it languishes, momentarily subdued. It knows there will be more prey to feast on soon enough. 

Sansa gives in to the animal urge to vigorously shake her body, ruffling the bits of fur that became matted with Joffrey’s blood. A large thunderbolt streaks across the sky and strikes nearby somewhere, her ears prick in a distantly interested manner; keeping alert while leisurely licking her paws. 

Eventually she is pleased that the blood she can reach has washed away on her strange new tongue, and her auburn fur is relatively clean. Not that it matters- her head is drenched from snout to eyebrow; nothing to be done about that, presently. 

She steps on the pile of bones and tattered clothing as she crosses to pick up the deceased False-King’s head in her jaws. Keeping her grip gentle so as not to mark his face- she wants it intact for further preservation- Sansa swishes her tail in a sudden burst of giddiness. 

At long last. Nearly five years with this piece of rubbish and I am finally free of him. The WORLD is finally free, Sansa giggles; suddenly she can also feel a light touch of amusement at her antics from the consciousness that resides within her. It feels old, yet somehow not. It is the same presence that demanded she feed before, and with a sense of bewilderment Sansa realizes it’s her “beast.” 

Not letting the oddity of her four-legged form having a “consciousness” detract from her victory, the young Stark trots lightly down the hall following her nose back to where she last scented Connington, Ingrid and her last prey's grandfather; nearly dancing as much as able on four legs, the precise picture of childish glee, and a task well done, Sansa wishes there were someone to show off her grotesque trophy to. 

She decides that perhaps it is nice to have the other voice within her. Only it can truly understand after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if you think i should continue!!! xoxo


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